


Promises to Fear

by clippedbird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clippedbird/pseuds/clippedbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam felt both unnerved by and drawn to the charismatic man who always engaged him in conversation at the library. When he is finally allowed a glimpse at what lay hidden beneath that charm, he finds a mentor he didn’t realise he wanted willing to lead him through the ‘ethics’ and art of murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucent

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably never going to be a fully fleshed out story, just a place for me to dump a collection of quickly written, random scenes between the two of them. It may jump back and forth in time at some point in the future because of that.

It is dark. He probably would have walked into a wall, or several, if it wasn't for the man next to him, guiding him through the blackened hallways with a well-placed hand at the small of his back.

Sam has no idea why they are in the middle of nowhere. He tried asking once during the drive here to which Nick simply said he had a gift for him and nothing else. Sam briefly considered pressing the subject but decided against it and just kept his eyes on the yellow stripes on the road as they were eaten by the front end of the jeep. There is something off about Nick tonight - well, more off. It is as if his entire body is practically humming, and Sam doesn't know if it is because he was on edge or excited. Maybe both.

They stop suddenly, Nick slipping away from Sam's side with a drag of his hand. There's a click and then light spilling from a small crack in a now open door, a door Sam hadn't even realized they were standing in front of.

Nick is there again, taking a wrist in each hand as he begins to walk backwards into the room, pushing the door open with his back.

Whatever Sam had been expecting, this wasn't it. To be honest, he expected nothing to be behind the door. This was just the final piece of some game Nick constructed that ended in his death - which raises the question, why did Sam willingly follow him here? But no, something is definitely here.

A woman.

There is a woman right in the middle of the room. She is naked, splayed out and strapped down, balanced on a wooden table that resembles a cross. Sam thinks she is already dead, that Nick was presenting him the type of present a cat would... then her head moves. It is a small movement, hindered by the strap across her face, but movement none-the-less.

She is his gift? What is he supposed to do with her?

That feels like a ridiculous question as soon as it finishes crossing his mind. If he hadn't known the answer before, he would have as soon as he saw the table with an array of tools scattered on its surface. It's chunky and metal, sitting next to the cross. For some reason Sam thinks its placement is deliberate, easily seen if she just looks off to the side.

Was he supposed to pick something?

Removing his wrists from the hold Nick still has on them, he makes his way over and runs a hand lightly, carefully, over each tool, saying the names of the ones he recognizes internally.

_Hammer. Scalpel. Electric saw. Hand saw. Rib spreader? Sheers. Syri-_

"No. Come here." Sam quickly pulls his arm back at the chiding voice that comes from behind. Turning, he sees Nick holding a knife out, hilt first. He hadn't even heard him walk up to the table.

"I want you to use this for your first time."

Sam can only nod as he reaches out, a part of him grateful. He hadn't wanted to use any of the other tools he saw. He didn't even know what he would do with part of them, and others were too brutal to even consider.

The knife feels as strange in his hand as it looks. It's long with symbols that Sam can't place etched along the blade. He might have asked Nick what they meant -if he even knew himself- but he can't get his mouth to work. It's trivial in the long run.

Nick moved to the opposite side of the table while Sam was distracted and is just watching him now. Watching very intently. It is more like he is crouching slightly over the table, really. Shoulders hunched, hands firmly placed on the table. He looks similar to a cat waiting for any sudden movement to pounce at.

Why do his actions always remind Sam of a feline? Also irrelevant.

He pulls his eyes away from Nick's stare and looks down at the woman he had almost forgotten was there. Somehow. Looking her in the eyes, it's clear how scared she. Terror widening her eyes. They are blue. 

Could he really do this? Up until this point they have mostly sat in Nick's car, watching people pass by as Nick spoke of rules. Never get caught. Never move to hastily. Always think every possible detail out. Never children or animals. That last one sounded especially important to him, which was peculiar to Sam.

But here he is, standing over a woman, a knife in hand. Nick is saying soothing words to him in the background - he assumes they are soothing, he can't actually tell what they are, the ringing in his ears muddling all other noise.

Sam locks on to Nick's hand as it comes into his line of sight. It's pointing to a spot on the woman's chest, below where the heart lies, and he is speaking again. Sam should focus on that, ask Nick to repeat himself, but he still can't manage it. He can't manage anything right now. 

He stares at that spot long after Nick's hand returns to its previous position on the table. Probably for too long, as he starts wondering about the woman's life. What is her name? How old is she? What does she do for a living? Is she married? Does she have any pets? Kids? Why her? Why did Nick pick her? Almost every action has a purpose with him.

He comes back to one question: does she have any children? His brother's room is where the only photos of his own mother are now. Framed images of her hugging his brother from behind with a smile and holding Sam as an infant hang on the walls and stand on the bedside table. Those scenes forever frozen on paper are the only memories Sam has of her. He'll never know what it's like to have her brush back his hair, the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her voice, her laugh. By killing this woman would he force another child to only know what their mother looks like through photographs, or video if they are luckier than he was? Would he be permanently destroying a part of someone else's childhood and leaving a family scarred?

He shouldn’t be thinking about this. 

But he can't stop the thoughts now that they have started. The damn is fracturing, his imagination birthing images of children who may not even exist, the smiling faces of a boy and a girl.

Sam shuts his eyes tightly for a minute before opening them again, blinking away the black spots and raising the knife up above his shoulders, gripping the handle with both hands. An inhale, an exhale, and then he brings the knife down swiftly, aiming in the general vicinity of that spot Nick had pointed to what could have been hours ago. It wouldn't have mattered if he had heard what Nick said about it, what exactly he was supposed to do, he would have forgotten it all as soon the flesh below gave way under the blade. He gives a small gasp when he sees the red begin to spill out from around the edges. That horrible, stunning red

He then does it again, and again.

The woman began to thrash in her restraints as soon as the knife had been lifted, releasing muffled screams into the leather pressed over her mouth. But now - now she is still. Eerily motionless, eyes blankly staring at the ceiling above. Sam hadn't expected it to be over that quickly. After all his reservations he is already missing the feeling it brought, not concerned with what that says about himself. He would do this again. He wants the damage he created to mend itself, wants the muscle and skin to be stitched back together and her heart to once again beat so he _can_ do it again.

A shuddering exhale comes from the direction Nick had been standing last and it causes Sam to look up. Nick is staring at him. He's pretty sure Nick hasn't stop staring the entire time, following his every movement no matter how insignificant. The woman didn't exist to him, only Sam. Nick's expression is hard to describe, some mix of awe and adoration. He looks like a man who could have just witnessed the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, unmatched by even Heaven’s golden streets. 

The ringing has stopped. Sam is now acutely aware of how quiet it is, the sound of liquid dripping onto the floor and their breaths the only interruptions.

Nick reaches for Sam but aborts halfway through, leaving his hand to hover in the space between, still with that look of wonder on his face. There aren't no smiling children, just a too sharp gaze and the sticky feeling of blood until Nick disrupts the silence, his voice tentative, barely above a whisper, "How do you feel?"

Sam lets out a shaky breath of his own and says the first thing that comes to mind, just as quiet, "Light." After a beat he adds, "High."

It sounds stupid, but given the way the corners of Nick's mouth turn up just a fraction, he figures it was a good enough answer.


	2. The Ode

It started with a question.

"Do you want to do it again?"

And an answer.

"I want to watch you."

Nick smiled at that. Smiling is something it seemed like he never quite perfected. Big or small, his face often looked too tight, too predatory, too manic, or simply like he was mocking you.

They are back at the house in the middle of nowhere, standing in the room Sam vaguely remembers.

Sam would have tried to use this opportunity to take in their surroundings as they made their way through the house... except there was nothing to take in. Every darkened room, every wall they passed appeared to be devoid of anything but shadows. The only furniture the house contains are the hellish cross and the metal table featuring all of the tools that are in this room with them. It is also the only room that has functioning lights, long fluorescent strips high above. Or the only ones Nick ever bothers to turn on. Compared to the rest of the house this room felt warm, like it had some life, which is ironic given the only thing Sam has seen happen in here is the exact opposite of that.

Nick moves around the place with ease, comfortable, so it is probably safe to assume he owns it. Though Sam wouldn't have been surprised if it had turned out Nick just found an abandoned place no one cared about and decided to turn it into his lair, if not for the fact that it has electricity and water. Sam has no idea what he does for a living, but he just looks as if he could afford two houses with the way he carries himself. Big houses at that if this one was anything to go by, and if you wanted to go so far as to call it a house. It looks more like a warehouse from the inside, with its concrete floors and high ceilings. The walls are obscured by thick plastic sheet. Black plastic covers the windows.

Sam is standing by the end of the cross, watching Nick rock his head slightly from side to side like he is considering how to go about this. He is then slipping his open blue button-up off his shoulders, handing it to Sam to hold on to. Sam takes it without question. But when Nick begins to draw his old green t-shirt over his head, he speaks, “What are you doing?"

Nick pauses for a second before continuing and then hands that shirt off to Sam as well. "Don't want to get blood on my shirt. People might get ideas, Sammy."

Sam scoffs, ignoring the use of that name. "They'd probably be right."

"Yeah, well," Nick presses an index finger to his lips, "that's our secret."

Nick rolls his neck, working down to his shoulders and finishing off by shaking out his arms. As he watches him, Sam knows this isn't actually about any stains. He looks freer with just the shedding of a couple pieces of fabric.

There isn't anything special underneath those layers. Nick is fit, with muscles that are obvious without being overly defined. There are no scars, other than those on his hands, or tattoos on the skin covering his bulkier frame. The most interesting thing is the dusting of hair across his chest. He comes off relatively average for someone who is anything but.

Nick's attention is back on the hapless victim laying prone in front of them. It isn't a woman on the cross this time but a man. He is trussed up in much the same fashion as she was, naked, with the leather straps cutting into his skin and firmly holding his body in position. Unlike her, his mouth is sewn shut, the band of leather going awkwardly over his eyes instead. Sam grimaces at that.

Nick doesn't have a type, Sam has realized. All of humanity are "flawed abortions", every person a victim in waiting, and Sam still isn't wholly convinced he isn't included on that list.

The strange knife from before is back, gripped loosely in Nick's hand. He begins by dragging it up the man's arm, stopping when he reaches the shoulder. There he digs the tip into the soft flesh, pulling downwards until there was a deep, three inch long gash left in its wake.

"Hm."

Sam doesn't know what that sound is supposed to mean.

Nick moves to the man's chest and does the same thing he did on his shoulder, not bothered by how he keeps trying to move away despite being bound so tightly, or by his muffled cries.

He makes his way around the entire table, causing Sam step back for a bit at one point. Arms, legs, stomach, they all receive this treatment. He leaves every section covered in the same wounds, the man’s torso bearing the brunt of Nick’s design. Even his cheeks aren't spared, though that area is thinner and the blade ends up going all through by the time Nick is done, scraping the teeth and gums hidden inside. They somewhat resemble eyes to Sam. It looks as if the man has dozens of red, weeping eyes bursting out from underneath the layers of his skin.

The knife is back on the table.

Sam chances a look at Nick's face, wanting to know if he sees the same thing Nick saw in him when the roles were reversed. Nick looks serene as he runs his hands over the heaving chest, drawing the blood up a stiff neck, decorating a part he was apparently hesitant to touch with the blade. The man hisses through the string threading his lips closed and his muscles spasm as Nick drags over the many wounds adorning his body. Sometimes a fingertip dips inside one and the man pitches forward as much as he can in the restraints.

Sam doesn't know what Nick is getting out of the act, but he is strangely alluring. There is nothing fake about him in this moment, here and now. No mask attempting to cover up the dark creature constantly, unknowingly, stirring inside a fragile human vessel. The being standing in front of him, this is Nick.

Nick rights himself, abruptly ending the mesmerizing display, and picks up the knife once more. He places the point over a spot on the chest, the same spot as before, gripping the hilt with both hands like Sam had.

After his experience, Sam refreshed his knowledge on anatomy, not willing to admit to Nick that he didn't hear a word he said and had been stabbing blindly essentially. It isn't the heart Nick is aiming for now, and it likely wasn't what he wanted Sam to try to for. It's not the right area. Sam believes it's, in fact, the aorta artery, the largest artery in the human body. Sever that and death comes within a few beats of a heart. Efficient. It could almost be seen as merciful if it wasn't Nick doing it, the quickness likely more for his own benefit rather than the victims.

Nick turns his head up, eyes drifting shut. A minute passes, and another, then he is moving slowly, head dropping forward as he presses his weight down on the knife, causing it to sink in just below the sternum. He is still after that save for the way his body moves with every breath. His eyes remain closed. It takes barely half a minute for the man to go still as well, something he hadn't done since Nick started making those hideous eyes appear. Under the leather Sam imagines the same blank stare the woman had.

Sam is amazed he had managed to hit anything when he wielded that very knife. He had been erratic, messy, inexperienced, and he knows it had to of taken longer for the woman to bleed out, even if it had only felt like seconds at the time. Nick is extraordinarily precise, precision only attained after years of practice.

Blood collects in the center of the man’s unmoving chest and runs down his sides on to the table, eventually dripping to its final destination on the plastic-covered floor. He remembers that sound, he doesn't remember the plastic.

"Move."

Sam snaps his head up to find those icy blue eyes locked on him. That is a part of Nick that definitely isn't average.

When he makes no effort to move in any direction, Nick comes around to his side of the table and grabs his shoulders, obviously not caring if Sam's clothes get stained, and lightly pushes him in the direction of the wall the end of the cross is pointed at. "Over there."

Sam furrows his eyebrows but does as he is told, feeling like a child. He takes a place on the floor near a couple of softboxes, back flush against the wall and Nick's clothes crumpled in his lap.

Nick circles around the table, removing small metal rods from underneath the wooden surface of the cross and tossing them down carelessly as he goes. Sam flinches every time one hits with the floor, the sound loud and echoing in the large, sparsely furnished room.

What is he doing?

After that task is apparently complete, he is reaching for wires that hang from the ceiling. There are three of them, all ending in a blunt curve, and Sam wonders how he had not notice those. Each wire is hooked into the three eyelets that are embedded in the cross, one at the top and in the center of each arm, before Nick moves across the large room to the right wall and flips a switch. There is a loud mechanical sound from above and the head of the cross slowly begins to lift off of its metal base, higher and higher.

Sam has heard of attaching swings to ceiling joists but this is something completely different. This is bizarre.

While the pulleys continues to raise the monstrosity into the air, Nick walks over and unlocks each wheel brake on the hollow base with a short, sharp kick, pulling it back and away. The sudden lack of support causes the cross to swing back and forth on the wires.

The switch is flipped again, the power cuts off. 

The cross is still swaying, creating an irregular pattern of blood on the floor with each pass. During one of its backward swings Nick catches it, the muscles of his arm bunching from the heavy weight as he tries to steady it. Sam swears he hears a faint metallic clang when they connect.

And there it is, a big wooden cross suspended a foot off the ground with a mutilated corpse covered in many angry, unblinking eyes crucified on it. It is both disturbing and fascinating, Sam isn't sure which emotion is greater. It’s not much taller than Nick, who is standing behind it on a metal stool, hands busy. It had seemed bigger when it had been lying down.

There is that sound again, metal scraping against metal, as Nick starts unfolding something on one side, spreading it out and hooking it to the back of one of the arms of the cross. He repeats the action on the other side to form a pair.

Of course. Of course there would be wings. Why not?

Nick steps down from the stool and circles around, standing in front as if to inspect his work. What he saw must have pleased him because he is approaching the wall Sam is leaning against, sitting down gracefully beside him.

Sam stares at Nick, who doesn't seem to notice, too busy rubbing at the streaks of blood that are on his chest. He isn't accomplishing anything, the blood on his hands and arms only adding to what is already there. Unless he is purposely painting himself crimson.

Sam looks down and picks at the buttons on Nick's shirt, trying not to dwell on that unpleasant thought. Maybe that's what Nick was doing too, distracting himself while he waited for Sam's response to what was set before him. Sam is convinced that this part wasn't for Nick, this was solely for him. Another gift. But how exactly is a person supposed to respond to this?

"What's the point?”

Nick answers without looking up, "Because it's beautiful."

"It's a lot of work for something no one else will ever see." That makes Sam more interesting than the attempt to slick down every hair on his chest.

"It's seen by the only person that matters." Who exactly Nick is referring to Sam isn't sure.

"I rarely do this," says Nick, resting his temple against the wall, "but I wanted you to see it at least once."

Sam doesn't say anything, deciding to inspect the wings, though he can't see too much detail from here. They are thin slats of metal of different lengths and widths, trimmed and etched to look like many feathers, and he can see what appears to be a pattern down the center of some of them. More engravings that match the ones on the knife that is currently still settled in the chest of Nick's angel? Thin wires or chains weave in and out and connecting the slates, adding to the space in between. It's all sprouting from the back of the cross like a macabre hand fan, or the frame of one. Wings stripped down to their bones.

This isn't simply killing, it was more like sculpting art. The wings, the cross, the pulleys, the angel, they are all things Nick constructed with his own hands. The wings alone had to take some amount of skill in order to get them to line up in a way that allows for them to be folded behind the slim cross and hidden inside the base so perfectly.

“Why?” asks Sam, continuing the conversation.

“I wanted you to see the beauty I create out of death. This thing in you, it doesn't have to be just cold brutality. You can mold it, make it your own. Make it mean something more.”

Sam shifts, watching the blood slip down the angel’s legs, like roots searching for the earth, forming a dark puddle on the cloudy plastic beneath the cross. Nick stays fixed on him.

In the presence of this man who is barely more than a stranger, a strung up celestial being of his own creation made just for him, and death Sam feels completely accepted, wanted. He feels likes he belongs and it’s terrifying.


	3. Kinder

"Good morning, Vietnam!"

Sam bolts upright, trying to untangle himself from his sheets and scramble out of bed when he sees Nick standing at the side of it. He is holding some of Sam’s clothes in one hand like he has every right to be here. His phone is in the other hand. He presses his thumb to the touchscreen and the audio that served as Sam’s wakeup call plays again.

There isn't anyone standing next to Nick, the apartment quiet, so he must have managed to evade Sam's roommates. Good. Because Sam didn't want to have to dance around the questions about just who Nick is.

Sam sighs and looks at him through tired, squinted eyes. "Did you break into my apartment?" Never mind that he is certain he has never told Nick where he lives in the first place, as the library is usually their meet up and drop off point.

Nick holds up the clothes and waves the items impatiently, the question ignored. Sam knew it would be.

"Come on, Sammy. We're leaving." It sounds like an order, but it’s not. If he was to tell him no, Nick would leave. But Sam won’t. He blames it on morbid curiosity instead of analyzing it further, the confusion and that feeling of belonging.

“Sam.” Sam takes his clothes with more force than necessary.

“Sam,” Nick corrects.

Slices of sunlight creep in between the curtains of the one window. This isn’t the right time of day to go to the kill house, but Sam’s not under the naïve notion that this visit is driven by sheer boredom. Nick didn't come here to watch movies and eat popcorn, he plans on getting something out of it.

Nick stays in the room as Sam gets dressed, part of which is done under the covers. Maybe he thought Sam would lock him out and go back to bed if he was to leave, a sudden change of heart, despite locks obviously being an ineffective deterrent. Nick doesn't leer, doesn't even spare a glance. Sam is the one that watches Nick’s back as he just sort of lingers and walks around the room, picking up random items and inspecting them. The dresser holds Nick’s attention the longest, where a few books, change, Sam’s wallet, and pictures of friends and family sit.

Fully dressed, they leave the apartment and make their way down the five flights of stairs, Sam following quickly behind Nick. The jeep is waiting outside next to the curb.

As soon as Sam is situated in the passenger seat, Nick hands him doughnuts and a sweet smelling coffee, not starting the engine and merging into traffic until Sam thanks him and takes a bite of the proffered food. It is doubtful the need for Sam to exhibit good manners is what caused the pause, but what exactly Nick was wanting or expecting is, again, unknown to him. He didn't really want to eat it, preferring healthier foods, something Nick is aware of, but he doesn't know where they are going and when he will be given another chance to eat.

It is 45 minutes of listening to the wind come through the cracked windows, low melodies from the radio, and small talk that gives away nothing before they turn into some suburb. Sam’s fingers still have some of the glaze from the doughnuts on them. The jeep changes direction again as he scrubs at the sticky residue, and then he feels it stop.

They’ve pulled into the driveway of a one of the houses. A picturesque, green one with tan accents, white shutters, and a two car garage. It’s when a garage door begins to open that Sam knows just where they are. This is Nick's house. Not his hell constructed deep in the woods, but the actual place where he eats and sleeps and lives. It’s a perfectly normal house nestled in this cute, quaint suburb, complete with a neatly manicured lawn. It has that American apple pie life look to it.

Nick parks and gets out wordlessly, the garage door slowly closing behind them. Sam unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to catch up. He passes another car, a black one, as he follows Nick to a door connecting the rest of the house to the garage. It isn't sleek and expensive looking, but it still fits the image Sam had created in his head more than the cherry red jeep he's only ever seen Nick drive.

The door empties into a hallway and continues, ending at the living room on one end and stairs going to a second floor at the other. Peering into the living room, Sam's initial judgment is... it's a disaster. It is clean, everything spotless as far as grim, no dust or cobwebs, but it’s cluttered. There is this chaotic madness to it. Papers are scattered across almost every available flat surface that isn't the floor. Two large bookcases take up the entire wall on either side of another doorway, the books piled and askew on their shelves. More books are stacked high in front of the bookcases several piles deep, some looking close to toppling. Aren't psychopaths supposed to be meticulous? There is likely some design to this though, every item exactly where it should be. He thinks if someone was to come in organize it in the traditional sense Nick would be completely lost.  
It is also cold in here. Sam rubs his arms, waiting for his body to adjust to the temperature change. Someone holds an extreme love for his air conditioning system.

At first, Sam is like a kid exploring some castle in a hidden realm, going in and out of every room straight away and investigating simply because Nick is allowing him to.

There are two other rooms that are in similar states as the living room. The dining room has more stacks and boxes of books along the walls and on the table, along with more papers. The kitchen counters are covered in dishes. Clean dishes. The island in the middle with four bar stools around it and a section next to the stove and oven are the only parts that have been left completely clear. Sam opens all the cabinets, seeing mostly healthy food, spices, and more dishes. The doughnuts from earlier make even less sense now. There are a couple bottles of alcohol in the freezer and meat all from the same local farm according to the vacuum sealed packaging. It’s like there is some correlation between the clutter and the fact that these are the rooms guests are most likely to enter, having to go through the living room to get to the dining room to get to the kitchen, because upstairs is highly organized.

In the office on the top floor, after rummaging through the large wooden desk, he notices a large plastic bin containing rolled up papers on the floor in the corner, between yet another bookcase -this one with cameras on one of the thick shelves- and the wall. Kneeling beside it, he wipes his hands on his jeans and picks one up, removing the rubber band wrapped around the sheet and spreading it out. It is a photo of an angel, one of Nick's angels. So he doesn't just sit there like a creep afterwards, staring for hours. He preserves them in photographs. He hadn't taken any pictures when he made that angel for Sam, it wasn't really his to keep.

Sam unrolls every one, a small pile of red rubber bands building on the floor and Nick watching over his shoulder. The victims are of different genders and ages, each mutilated in a variety of ways. Sam's angel had been tame in comparison. Some of them are missing their eyes, their head, or patches of skin. Others have their abdominal cavity hollowed out, a crown of bleached antlers atop their head, or a Chelsea smile on their face, their bottom jaws hanging unnaturally. Layers of barbed wire are pulled taut in some of the smiles, holding their head to the cross in place of the leather. One man has a large amount of blood between his thighs, a strap concealing the cause. The main factor they all share is they are all covered in those weeping eyes. Even with them not being openly on display, Sam feels that there is a degree of arrogance in the way Nick just keeps them out like this.

However, there is artwork Nick proudly displays for all to see: a collection of work surrounding the angel Lucifer. There is at least one print or painting hung up in every room of the house. A few of the prints are of pieces Sam recognizes, others look to be originals done by unknown artists.

Sam is looking at one of the prints in the guest bedroom when he asks, “Why so partial to angels?”

"Not so much angels, really. Him." The rumble of Nick's voice practically caresses Sam’s back. The guy is like velcro. He doesn't care about proper personal space protocol when it comes to Sam. He did originally, keeping his distance and treating Sam like some animal that would spook easily, but it didn't take long before he forgot the concept almost completely. Sam suspects he just gets entertainment out of it as opposed to actually having an innate craving for physical affection and closeness.

He must have moved back when he saw Sam begin to spin around because when they are facing each other again he is a couple feet from him rather than one step away from draping himself over his shoulders.

"Why him?"

"He saw humanity for what they really were, saw that he was better than them and wanted everyone else to see it."

Sam instantly understands. "He inspires you."

Nick looks at him then like he did something especially fascinating. "Yes."

It is the first piece of information he has shared that doesn't involve blood and feels truly personal.

The expedition continues.

It is a large house so it keeps Sam occupied for a while, though he can’t fathom why Nick needs this much space. He counts four bedrooms, only two of which contain beds. One is converted into a darkroom, explaining where Nick got his photographs developed. There was no chance he took them into a store and had them printed out.

There is one door, one room, Sam can’t access though. It’s located in the downstairs hallway. All the other doors in the house have been stained wood while this one blends in, painted the same white on the walls. But what grabs Sam is that it is so heavily locked. It has a plain deadbolt, the type that only requires a twist to unlock and not a key. But there are three other locks going down the length of the door that do need keys.

The metal of the deadbolt is cool under his fingertips. He looks back to Nick, who has abandoned his role as Sam's shadow and is essentially as far away as possible without actually leaving. "What's in there?"

"It's the basement." Nick’s body is stiff, voice tight. This clearly is not a conversation he wants to have.

Sam isn't content with that simple, innocent explanation. "What's down there? Why is it locked?"

"Nothing. It's locked because I don't go down there." Nick is refraining from looking directly at the door himself, making a point to stay zeroed in on Sam's face.

"Never?" Sam presses, picking at one of the key slots with his thumbnail.

"If I can avoid it."

A person doesn't put this many locks on a door simply because it's never used. They do it when they are trying to keep something inside, or something out. There has to be something down there. But Sam knows he isn't going to get a straightforward answer, not today, as Nick looks as if he is subtly fighting against the urge to run. Putting an ear to the door, Sam doesn’t hear anything and he lets it drop for now. Nick falls in step behind him as soon as he passes.

After the thrill wears off, everything explored enough for today, they find themselves in the living room. Nick is sprawled languidly across the plush, gray couch like, well, a cat -damnit- with Sam sitting in a chair opposite him. Nick's eyes are closed, giving the appearance that he is sleeping. He isn't. He is waiting. Nothing is said. Sam can never quite get used to these extended silences that often hang over them during episodes such as this, always feeling the compulsion to fill it. He apparently lacks Nick's level of patience.

The papers on the coffee table prove to be things that should be thrown away. This isn't actually Nick's own form of organization, he discovered. All of his important information is filed away neatly in his office or bedroom. This here is all junk mail, old magazines and newspapers, blank sheets of paper. None of them serve an obvious purpose other than taking up space.

Tossing an envelope containing a credit card offer down onto the table to join the litter once again, Sam falls back into the chair, Nick's reason for this little escapade still alluding him. As soon as his back connects with the chair's, he is startled, lap suddenly full of dog. He hadn't seen one anywhere near him.

Nick owning dogs isn't a real revelation, having spotted a box with small cans of dog food that is always in the back of the jeep, he just hadn't predicted quite so many. He saw at least four during the tour of the house, slinking out of rooms when they entered. He didn't try to force himself on them, knowing his presence is unfamiliar to them. Given that some of them are starting to show themselves, making far game of their unprotected laps, they must be getting used to him now.

A scraggly, brown medium sized dog, bigger than Sam’s, jumps onto the couch with Nick, lying its front half on his stomach.

Sam gently pushes the white mutt away from his face when it tries to lick at his mouth, its front paws pressing into his chest. He grabs the tags jingling on the collar around the dog’s neck, moving the rabies tag to the side and reading the identification tag. _Lilith_. Naturally.

"You have a lot of dogs," Sam states.

Nick starts idly running a hand down his dogs back. Sometimes he stops, placing his hand on his chest, and the dog creeps forward and nudges its muzzle under it until he continues. Nick is doing it on purpose, as he does it too often and gets a tiny smirk every time. It's weird seeing him look so soft when not a week ago he was covered in sticky red and suspending a cadaver from a ceiling in a way that could be considered blasphemy. He is curious if the dogs can still smell that blood and if it bothers them at all. It doesn't appear to.

"I find them. Or more accurately, they find me."

It’s another contradiction to be added to the list of those that make up the enigma that is Nick.

"You don't have to bring them home with you."

Eyes open, Nick looks close to offended by the idea. "What would you have me do, leave them to starve?"

Now Sam looks offended. "No! Just – “and not knowing where he is going with that he cuts himself off with a disbelieving huff. “A psychopaths with a heart. Right."

Nick pulls himself up from his careless position, causing the dog to leap back down to the floor. Along with smiling, he really needed to learn how to look at a person in a way that isn't so unnerving. It’s intense, constantly reflecting some type of emotion even when the rest of his face is set. Sam doesn't get how he manages to charm people so successfully and not simply freak them out. He doesn't think he meant for it to be so uncomfortable, not all the time, it was just his natural stare.

"Do you think that I'm not capable of love?" He stops briefly, like he's letting Sam have the chance to deny it. Sam doesn't and Nick seems troubled by it, his brows pinched. "The earth, animals, my family, those are the things I love, Sam. Unconditionally.”

This is the only instance he has ever uttered the word 'family' or alluded to their existence. As backwards as it is, the part of him that kills and dismembers other human beings is what Nick shares eagerly. It's the things that aren't linked to that dark creature that he considers private and keeps closely guarded. Sam didn't even know that he lived in a house. For all he knew Nick just crawled back into some cage in Hell when he wasn't topside, maiming the innocent, or some old train car.

Is that the grand point of today, giving Sam the chance to learn more about his new mentor? Because Nick isn't exactly initiating any conversations, but he isn't ignoring Sam either, even if he may only provide vague answers. But this isn't something new. Nick has always answered him in the past. The opportunity never leaves, Sam is learning, and it's ultimately up to him to take full advantage of it, like Nick wants him to _want_ to know the information and not just force it upon him.

“It's probably my problem." Nick looks less present as he continues, almost staring through Sam instead of at him now. He may not even be aware he is still speaking out loud. Sam picked at a scab and now Nick is bleeding, stuck somewhere inside his own head and unconsciously dispensing information. "When you love so completely it doesn't take much for that love to turn to rage, and then for that rage to consume you until you are just a shell of the person you once were."

This is a point where Sam could invade a protected area and really take advantage, because there is something substantial just over the threshold. Except it doesn't feel right. Nick never pressures him for answers to his own past. Sam shares at his own pace. It is still as if Nick already knew every piece he does share despite that little fact, but that's not the point.

The tone leaves the impression that Nick no longer associates with his family, or his family doesn't associate with him. There are no pictures, no cards, and no letters. If that is the case, Sam can relate. He knows the open wound it can leave behind, one that never fully heals. Since he left for college he is lucky to get a call from his brother or dad once every month. Talking with his brother is bittersweet but gratifying. Sometimes the calls last for over an hour, and he still always makes sure to tell Sam, in his own way, how proud he is of him. His dad is a different story altogether. After he dropped out of college for reasons even he doesn't fully understand, he can almost feel his dad's condescension through the phone every time they speak, coating his skin in an irritating film that is difficult to wash off. So you abandoned your family for no reason. Those calls end soon after they begin.

Sam recalls the crime shows he used to watch, of all the killers born in the dysfunction of a broken home, and can’t help but wonder if Nick's family is partly responsible for what is living underneath the human suit sitting across from him and if he has isolated himself from them because of it.

That's unfair though. He doesn't know anything about them. They could be the nicest people, having had absolutely no hand in the way Nick turned out. He doesn't even know for certain that they are estranged. Maybe Nick doesn't want to openly talk about or feature them in his home as a way of protecting them. They could know what he is, too, and are scared of him, only keeping quiet out of familial obligation. Sam just can't shake the feeling that there is something sinister surrounding their relationship though, something more than disagreements and mourning induced alcoholism.

These little peeks inside the labyrinth of Nick’s mind, of his past, just cause Sam to be more drawn to him. He wants to know more, wants to know everything Nick is willing to give. That admission causes the anxiety that had previously fallen by the wayside during the benign actions of today to flare up anew.

Nick eyes are clear again, no longer engrossed in some unknown memories, but the sadness still lingers in the form of a somber smile. "Or maybe that rage molds you into what you were always destined to be."

With a dismissive gesture from Nick, the moment ends. "Anyway."

Sam gives a thin, humorless smile in return, Lilith resting on his thighs. It’s a shield and the closing of a door.


	4. Novelty

Sam is saying the words before he can stop, leaving them to die on the back of his teeth. "Were you married?"

How Nick twists the plain, silver band around and around on his finger was one of the first things he remembers noticing about him. During their hushed conversations at the same table surrounded by shelves, the times when Nick would silently read whatever book Sam pushed in his direction, his fingers would always find that ring. It was like a nervous tic, or a way to keep idle hands occupied.

Given the way he quickly dropped the charade at the library, it's unlikely he came up with such a tale just for image sake with plans of sticking with it indefinitely. He's more than capable of keeping to it, Sam just doesn't see him wanting to. It's not a decoration, he wears it because it holds some sort of importance to him. It has to. Sam has never seen him without it. Even when he kills he keeps it firmly on his finger, taking great care in cleaning it afterwards.

If he had been married at some point, it wasn't the case now. It's been close to three months since Nick first brought him over and there has never been anyone else here, not even a hint of them having been there. Sam's visits started out as one day every other weekend and progressed until, eventually, he was showing up every weekend. Sometimes it would be every day that weekend, and sometimes he'd stay well into the morning hours without actually sleeping in the spare room. Besides that, nothing looks as if they could belong to someone else. Everything screams 'Nick'. Nick is alone in this disordered museum.

Nick's personal life continues to be shaky territory. Sam has tried to get him to talk about his family some more, but if he doesn't want to talk about something, he won't. He'll use his talent with words to attempt to trick a person into believing he gave a satisfying answer when really he barely answered anything at all. Sam keeps trying occasionally without really pushing him to fill in the gaps. He didn't want to regret inadvertently stumbling too far into a certain topic. Nick’s personality is too calm, too composed, and it's always those that are the scariest when they're angry. Nick being a murderer had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Yet Sam still finds the question leaving his mouth.

Nick holds his hand out, elbow resting on his thigh, and looks at the object as if its existence had slipped his mind entirely. "Yes." Sam was prepared for that to be the end of it again. Then, "Her name was Sarah. We were married for four years - no, three. Together four."

It is exactly what he had anticipated, but it wasn't any easier to wrap his head around. "What happened?" Sam asks, more confident that he isn't crossing a boundary.

Nick turns his hand over so the palm is now facing him and gives a quick shrug, letting his arm drop and hang between his knees. "I killed her."

Deep down that had been expected, too. Nick is surrounded by death, in every way.

"Did you love her?" Sam can't stop that either. He has to know. Sarah was a person and Nick has made it no secret how much he despises them. Of course, so is Sam and he has practically become an obsession. But fake friendship, or whatever it is that is going on between them, aren't comparable to marriage. A three yearlong marriage. It doesn't ask for the commitment of living with a person, of sharing space and a life with them every day. He'd always have to maintain at least the illusion of love if he wanted to masquerade as a devoted husband convincingly all while keeping his secrets.

Nick makes an amused sound, adjusting his rolled up sleeves. "Do I seem like the kind of person that would marry someone if I didn't, after what I’ve told you?"

"I still don't really know what kind of person you are," is Sam's honest reply.

Annoyance flickers across Nick’s face. "I did." He’s moving the ring up and down his finger, exposing the tan line that has formed on his skin as a result of its constant wear. "But I got careless around her once and she figured it all out. Self-preservation kicked in." He gives another one of those amused huffs. "It had been going well up until that point."

He is speaking so matter-of-factly about it that Sam was starting to doubt that he has been telling the truth. That is, until he says, "I couldn't dismember her though. It felt... wrong. Truth is, I couldn't do anything to her. I just sat there looking at her." Nick looks confused by his own confession, knitting his eyebrows together while tilting his head. His legs shift slightly, further apart. "I made it look like a burglary instead." He moves again, this time his legs coming closer together.

That is the most deranged show of love that Sam has ever heard. He risked getting caught because he couldn't bring himself to defile his wife like he does effortlessly to so many other people. He would have undoubtedly been considered a suspect regardless of which action he chose, but the physical presence of a body wouldn't have helped his case any. It makes a twisted kind of sense, a type that should never exist beyond this house without Nick at its center. It shouldn't even then, yet it does. 

She wasn’t on the list of what he loved, unless she was blanketed under ‘family’, so what about her made Nick decide that it was all worth it? What made her special to him? What made either of them, those situated on the outside, special?

Nick play at a loose string around a worn hole in the knee of his jeans, and Sam tracks each pull. For Nick, he has been fidgeting a lot since this came up, more than the careless turning of a wedding ring. Sam is talented at finding those places where Nick is most uncomfortable. Like the basement and his family, they are places probably no one has peeled back the surface of and touched in years but what makes him appear like less of a boogeyman and more like a human being.

Without being prompted, Nick is talking again, "It turned out -" He breaks off, and for a long while it seems he isn't going to complete that particular thought. "It turned out that she was pregnant at the time." He pauses and looks Sam in the eyes. "Oops." 

Sam suddenly feels as though the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. Nick looks unaffected;

It is such a callous, flat response to revealing that you had killed your unborn child after admitting to your wife's murder minutes earlier. But there is a bitterness surrounding those four letters that catches slightly on Nick's lips that he doesn't know if he was supposed to hear. Or see. 

Sam has a talent for that, too.


End file.
